Poems:
Other Poems in the collection by Edna St.Vincent Millay
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A Few Figs from Thistles
Poems and Sonnets
by Edna St.Vincent Millay
[1922]
- MY CANDLE burns at both ends;
- It will not last the night;
- But ah, my foes, and oh, my friends--
- It gives a lovely light!
- SAFE upon the solid rock the ugly houses stand:
- Come and see my shining palace built upon the sand!
- WE WERE very tired, we were very merry--
- We had gone back and forth all night on the ferry.
- It was bare and bright, and smelled like a stable--
- But we looked into a fire, we leaned across a table,
- We lay on a hilltop underneath the moon;
- And the whistles kept blowing, and the dawn came soon.
- We were very tired, we were very merry--
- We had gone back and forth all night on the ferry,
- And you ate an apple, and I ate a pear,
- From a dozen of each we had bought somewhere;
- And the sky went wan, and the wind came cold,
- And the sun rose dripping, a bucketful of gold.
- We were very tired, we were very merry,
- We had gone back and forth all night on the ferry,
- We hailed "Good morrow, mother!" to a shawl-covered head,
- And bought a morning paper, which neither of us read;
- And she wept, "God bless you!" for the apples and pears,
- And we gave her all our money but our subway fares.
- AND if I loved you Wednesday,
- Well, what is that to you?
- I do not love you Thursday--
- So much is true.
- And why you come complaining
- Is more than I can see.
- I loved you Wednesday,--yes--but what
- Is that to me?
- HOW shall I know, unless I go
- To Cairo or Cathay,
- Whether or not this blessèd spot
- Is blest in every way?
- Now it may be, the flower for me
- Is this beneath my nose;
- How shall I tell, unless I smell
- The Carthaginian rose?
- The fabric of my faithful love
- No power shall dim or ravel
- Whilst I stay here,--but oh, my dear,
- If I should ever travel!
- AS I went walking up and down to take the evening air,
- (Sweet to meet upon the street, why must I be so shy?)
- I saw him lay his hand upon her torn black hair;
- ("Little dirty Latin child, let the lady by!")
- The women squatting on the stoops were slovenly and fat,
- (Lay me out in organdie, lay me out in lawn!)
- And everywhere I stepped there was a baby or a cat;
- (Lord, God in Heaven, will it ever be dawn?)
- The fruit-carts and clam-carts were ribald as a fair,
- (Pink nets and wet shells trodden under heel)
- She had haggled from the fruit man of his rotting ware;
- (I shall never get to sleep, the way I feel!)
- He walked like a king through the filth and the clutter,
- (Sweet to meet upon the street, why did you glance me by?)
- But he caught the faint Italian quip she flung him from the gutter;
- (What can there be to cry about, that I should lie and cry?)
- He laid his darling hand upon her little black head,
- (I wish I were a ragged child with earrings in my ears!)
- And he said she was a baggage to have said what she had said;
- (Truly I shall be ill unless I stop these tears!)
- WHAT should I be but a prophet and a liar,
- Whose mother was a leprechaun, whose father was a friar?
- Teethed on a crucifix and cradled under water,
- What should I be but a fiend's god-daughter?
- And who should be my playmates but the adder and the frog,
- That was got beneath a furze-bush and born in a bog?
- And what should be my singing, that was christened at an altar,
- But Aves and Credos and Psalms out of Psalter?
- You will see such webs on the wet grass, maybe,
- As a pixie-mother weaves for her baby,
- You will find such flame at the wave's weedy ebb
- As flashes in the meshes of a mer-mother's web,
- But there comes to birth no common spawn
- From the love of a priest and a leprechaun,
- And you never have seen and you never will see
- Such things as the things that swaddled me!
- After all's said and after all's done,
- What should I be but a harlot and a nun?
- In through the bushes, on foggy days,
- My Da would come a-swishing of the drops away,
- With a prayer for my death and a groan for my birth,
- A-mumbling of his beads for all he was worth.
- And there sit my Ma, her knees beneath her chin,
- A-looking in his face and a-drinking of it in,
- And a-marking in the moss some funny little saying
- That would mean just the opposite of all he was praying!
- He taught me the holy-talk of Vesper and of Matin,
- He heard me my Greek and he heard me my Latin,
- He blessed me and crossed me to keep my soul from evil,
- And we watched him out of sight, and we conjured up the devil!
- Oh, the things I haven't seen and the things I haven't known,
- What with hedges and ditches till after I was grown,
- And yanked both ways by my mother and my father,
- With a 'Which would you better?" and a "Which would you rather?"
- With him for a sire and her for a dam,
- What should I be but just what I am?
- OH, PRUE she has a patient man,
- And Joan a gentle lover,
- And Agatha's Arth' is a hug-the-hearth,--
- But my true love's a rover!
- Mig, her man's as good as cheese
- And honest as a briar,
- She tells her love what he's thinking of,--
- But my dear lad's a liar!
- Oh, Sue and Prue and Agatha
- Are thick with Mig and Joan!
- They bite their threads and shake their heads
- And gnaw my name like a bone;
- And Prue says, "Mine's a patient man,
- As never snaps me up,"
- And Agatha, "Arth' is a hug-the-hearth,
- Could live content in a cup,"
- Sue's man's mind is like good jell--
- All one color, and clear--
- And Mig's no call to think at all
- What's to come next year,
- While Joan makes boast of a gentle lad,
- That's troubled with that and this;--
- But they all would give the life they live
- For a look from the man I kiss!
- Cold he slants his eyes about,
- And few enough's his choice,--
- Though he'd slip me clean for a nun, or a queen,
- Or a beggar with knots in her voice,--
- And Agatha will turn awake
- When her good man sleeps sound,
- And Mig and Sue and Joan and Prue
- Will hear the clock strike round,
- For Prue she has a patient man,
- As asks not when or why,
- And Mig and Sue have naught to do
- But peep who's passing by,
- Joan is paired with a putterer
- That bastes and tastes and salts,
- And Agatha's Arth is a hug-the-hearth,--
- But my true love is false!
- ALL right,
- Go ahead!
- What's in a name?
- I guess I'll be locked into
- As much as I'm locked out of!
- THERE was a road ran past our house
- Too lovely to explore.
- I asked my mother once--she said
- That if you followed where it led
- It brought you to the milkman's door.
- (That's why I have not travelled more.)
- WAS it for this I uttered prayers,
- And sobbed and cursed and kicked the stairs,
- That now, domestic as a plate,
- I should retire at half-past eight?
- I HAD a little Sorrow,
- Born of a little Sin,
- I found a room all damp with gloom
- And shut us all within;
- And, "Little Sorrow, weep," said I,
- "And, Little Sin, pray God to Die,
- And I upon the floor will lie
- And think how bad I've been!"
- Alas for pious planning--
- It mattered not a whit!
- As far as gloom went in that room,
- The lamp might have been lit!
- My Little Sorrow would not weep,
- My Little Sin would go to sleep--
- To save my soul I could not keep
- My graceless mind on it!
- So up I got in anger,
- And took a book I had,
- And put a ribbon in my hair
- To please a passing lad.
- And, "One thing there's no getting by--
- I've been a wicked girl," said I;
- "But if I can't be sorry, why,
- I might as well be glad!"
- WHY do you follow me?--
- Any moment I can be
- Nothing but a laurel-tree.
- Any moment of the chase
- I can leave you in my place
- A pink bough for your embrace.
- Yet if over hill and hollow
- Still it is your will to follow,
- I am off;--to heel, Apollo!
- BEFORE she has her floor swept
- Or her dishes done,
- Any day you'll find her
- A-sunning in the sun!
- It's long after midnight,
- Her key's in the lock,
- And you'll never see her chimney smoke
- Till past ten o'clock!
- She digs in her garden
- With a shovel and a spoon,
- She weeds her lazy lettuce
- By the light of the moon,
- She walks up the walk
- like a woman in a dream,
- She forgets she borrowed butter
- And pays you back cream!
- Her lawn looks like a meadow,
- And if she mows the place
- She leaves the clover standing
- And the Queen Anne's Lace!
- CUT if you will, with Sleep's dull knife,
- Each day to half its length, my friend,--
- The years that Time takes off my life,
- He'll take from the other end!
- OH I am grown so free from care
- Since my heart broke!
- I set my throat against the air,
- I laugh at simple folk!
- There's little kind and little fair
- Is worth its weight in smoke
- To me, that's grown so free from care
- Since my heart broke!
- Lass, if to sleep you would repair
- As peaceful as you woke,
- Best not beseige your lover there
- For just the words he spoke
- To me, that's grown so free from care
- Since my heart broke!
- STILL must the poet as of old,
- In barren attic bleak and cold,
- Starve, freeze, and fashion verses to
- Such things as flowers and song and you;
- Still as of old his being give
- In Beauty's name, while she may live,
- Beauty that may not die as long
- As there are flowers and you and song.
IF HE SHOULD LIE A-DYING
- I AM not willing you should go
- Into the earth, where Helen went;
- She is awake by now, I know.
- Where Cleopatra's anklets rust
- You will not lie with my consent;
- And Sappho is a roving dust;
- Cressid could love again; Dido,
- Rotted in state, is restless still;
- You leave me much against my will.
- AND what are you that, wanting you,
- I should be kept awake
- As many nights as there are days
- With weeping for your sake?
- And what are you that, missing you,
- As many days as crawl
- I should be listening to the wind
- And looking at the wall?
- I know a man that's a braver man
- And twenty men as kind,
- And what are you, that you should be
- The one man on my mind?
- Yet women's ways are witless ways,
- As any sage will tell,--
- And what am I, that I should love
- So wisely and so well?
Four Sonnets
I.
- LOVE, though for this you riddle me with darts,
- And drag me at your charriot till I die,--
- Oh, heavy prince! Oh, panderer of hearts!--
- Yet hear me tell how in their throats they lie
- Who shout you mighty: thick about my hair,
- Day in, day out, your ominous arrows purr,
- Who still am free, unto no querulous care
- A fool, and in no temple worshiper!
- I, that have bared me to your quiver's fire,
- Lifted my face into its puny rain,
- Do wreathe you Impotent to Evoke Desire
- As you are Powerless to Elicit Pain!
- (Now will the god, for blasphemy so brave,
- Punish me, surely, with the shaft I crave!)
II.
- I THINK I should have loved you presently,
- And given in earnest words I flung in jest;
- And lifted honest eyes for you to see,
- And caught your hand against my cheek and breast;
- And all my pretty follies flung aside
- That won you to me, and beneath your gaze,
- Naked of reticence and shorn of pride,
- Spread like a chart my little wicked ways.
- I, that had been to you, had you remained,
- But one more waking from a recurrent dream,
- Cherish no less the certain stakes I gained,
- And walk your memory's halls, austere, supreme,
- A ghost in marble of a girl you knew
- Who would have loved you in a day or two.
III.
- OH, THINK not I am faithful to a vow!
- Faithless am I save to love's self alone.
- Were you not lovely I would leave you now:
- After the feet of beauty fly my own.
- Were you not still my hunger's rarest food,
- And water ever to my wildest thirst,
- I would desert you -- think not but I would! --
- And seek another as I sought you first.
- But you are mobile as the veering air,
- And all your charms more changeful than the tide,
- Wherefore to be inconstant is no care:
- I have but to continue at your side.
- So wanton, light and false, my love, are you,
- I am most faithless when I most am true.
IV.
- I SHALL forget you presently, my dear,
- So make the most of this, your little day,
- Your little month, your little half a year,
- Ere I forget, or die, or move away,
- And we are done forever; by and by
- I shall forget you, as I said, but now,
- If you entreat me with your loveliest lie
- I will protest you with my favourite vow.
- I would indeed that love were longer-lived,
- And oaths were not so brittle as they are,
- But so it is, and nature has contrived
- To struggle on without a break thus far, --
- Whether or not we find what we are seeking
- Is idle, biologically speaking.
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